


Ring, Ring, Little Bell (You Shall Not Toll For Me)

by Morvith



Series: Hey falcons [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Assisted Suicide, BAMF Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, BAMF Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Blood and Gore, Captivity, Dark Past, M/M, Murder, Mutilation, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Rescue, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29204970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morvith/pseuds/Morvith
Summary: Sequel/Midquel ofWith This Wind Blowing, and This Tide.After the attack on safe-house Charlie, Joe and Nicky wake up alone: their whole family is gone, presumably captured by somebody who knows their secret, and there will be no dreams to guide them.It's a long way from Goussainville to Guildford, to London and, finally, to Malta.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Hey falcons [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2095638
Comments: 53
Kudos: 199





	1. Chapter 1

_"Do you ever wonder how he would have killed us?”_

_Yusuf turns on his side, watching Nicolò's profile in the faint light coming in from the street outside. He doesn't need to ask who he is talking about: there's only one man it could be. “Not really. He was a coward, though: I imagine he would have asked somebody else to do it. Or tied us to something heavy and dropped us into the sea.”_

“ _Like Quýnh.”_

“ _Yeah. It might not have come to that, though: remember how ill we were? It's not like he would have taken us to a hospital.” Granted, neither had their guardians, but that was different._

_Nicolò hums thoughtfully.“So we didn't even have 4 years left, after all.”_

“ _Most likely.” He wishes he could turn on the lights and see him better, but he'd have to reach over him to get to the lamp on his bedside table and it might spook him. Moreover, Qu_ _ýnh or Andy would come and check on them: while they don't object to them still sharing a bed, Booker does and Yusuf and Nicolò prefer to maintain plausible deniability. “What brought this on, Nico?”_

_Nicolò turns on his side, too, facing him. “It has been ten years since Booker found us. We have been together for ten years.”_

_By now it's almost Christmas, so it must be true: the anniversary of their liberation must have come and passed, unacknowledged as usual since Booker, Andy and Quýnh refuse to tell them the exact date. Yusuf recognized Sinterklaas decorations as they drove through a town, but that might mean anything from mid November to the first days of December. “That's true. Shouldn't you be happy about it?”_

“ _I am, of course I am, I just...” He pauses, wetting his lips – Yusuf can tell even in the dark. “I can't believe it sometimes. I can't believe we got out, and we got to stay together and go to school and travel around the world... All the things we have done and seen and learned...”_

_The bed is warm, but they both shiver. Yusuf gropes around until he finds Nicolò's right hand and covers it with his left, squeezing it tightly. “I know. Me too.” He swallows hard. “I used to have nightmares about it: I'd wake up and we'd be back in that cellar...”_

_Nicolò bows his head, brushes his lips against the back of Yusuf's hand. “Sorry. I'm upsetting you.”_

“ _You're not, Nico. Our past is what it is, but it makes our present all the better, doesn't it? Because we are alive, that bastard is dead and we did get to stay together and we did get to do and see all kinds of wonderful stuff.”_

“ _True. I just...” He trails off and his brows must be furrowed in thought, his lips pressed together. “It feels like we cheated death. Like we are living on borrowed time.”_

“ _Aren't we all?” Yusuf considers. “Just don't tell Booker. Or Andy and Quýnh, they'd blame themselves.”_

_Nicolò sighs exhasperatedly as only a fourteen-year-old boy can. “I don't know why, it's not their fault!”_

“ _It's hard to explain if you haven't lived it, I guess.” It had taken them years to find the words to express it. Back then, they simply knew they'd never leave the cellar alive – it wasn't something that needed discussing, it was a certainty they felt down to their bones. And then, a miracle._

_Quýnh felt something like that in her prison of iron and salt water, but it only lasted the space between two deaths before she went back to fighting against her chains, her coffin. Booker had been sure he would die, both before he deserted and after he was caught, Yusuf mused, but in both cases it wasn't quite the same. For Quýnh it meant giving in to despair. Booker acknowledged the reality of his situation and made a choice – a bad one, perhaps, but it had been a choice nonetheless. They had had no choice and no hope, until Booker came._

“ _It feels the same for you, doesn't it?” Nicolò whispers urgently, his voice breaking through Yusuf's reverie._

“ _Of course it does.” He squeezes his hand again. “You're not alone, Nico. We'll never be alone again.” He can't see him, but he knows he's smiling._

_Yusuf's worst nightmare, the one that still returns sometimes: Nicolò screaming his name, crying, throwing himself at the cellar door over and over again, only it's not Nicolò as he was when he came or when they left, he's older. Eight years old, he knows with the unexplained certainty of dreams, which means that he must be...ten? Eleven?_

_He calls his name, but Nicolò doesn't hear him. He grabs at him but no matter how hard he tries, he can't touch him, can't stop him. Nicolò is down in the cellar all alone._

The world shakes as Joe wakes up – another plane passing overhead, but it's not just that, it's waking up again after being shot. He _was_ shot, he was _dead_ and now he's not and it shouldn't be possible, yet he's breathing, his heart beats. How can his heart beat – still? again? when it feels heavy as a stone? Does he still have a heart, or is there a throbbing back hole where it used to be?

He's facing the wrong way, he knows he is, but he closes his eyes anyway. He can't look at Nicolò, not now, not yet. Just one more moment, one more second to hope, to believe another miracle is possible. One more second before his heart breaks forever.

Another plane flies by, then another, then, for a couple of seconds, silence. He can hear his own heart, his own breathing... and another sound, too, something small and metallic falling to the floor.

Joe's eyes fly open, his heart picks up pace as he pushes himself up, as he turns. The room is dark, but there's just enough light to see the other body move, become _Nicky_ again.

For a moment, they can only stare at each other, hardly daring to breathe lest the spell is broken. A plane rattles the walls and windows.

He's not sure who reaches out first, who takes the first step, but this he knows: they meet in the middle, crashing into each other and holding on tightly.

“Sei qui, sei qui, sei qui...” Nicky chants like a prayer, his hands franctically checking every inch of his body, every tear in his clothes.

Joe can't stop kissing him everywhere he can reach: his lips, his cheeks, his nose, his eyelids, then down his neck until he feels his pulse fluttering under his own lips, strong and fast and so deliciously real.

Nicky breathes in – he can feel that, too, he's breathing, he's alive, _alive_ – and cups his face in his hands, gently pulling him back up for a kiss, licking against his lips. Some of the urgency leaves them then, melts away. Joe never wants this moment to end.

Eventually, Nicky pulls back, his arms settling around Joe's waist. Joe's hand sinks in the – matted, stiff – hair at the back of his head and pulls him closer, pressing their foreheads together. “Is this real?” he whispers against his lips, breathing the same air. “Have I died and gone to Heaven?”

The walls shake again. He feels Nicky's smile more than sees it. “I don't think there are planes in Heaven. At least not so many.”

He breathes out slowly, deeply. “Fuck. Nicky.”

Nicky presses their lips together again. “Yeah. It's...”

Joe doesn't know what to call it, either, if it's a miracle or fate or the hand of God. He knows what it means, he has seen it happen to Andy, Quýnh and Booker often enough, yet he can't quite wrap his head around it now: he was dead, Nicky was dead and now they are not, yet it shouldn't be possible, there's already a new immortal and they were all surprised it was so soon after Booker...

Joe opens his eyes, franctically looks around, but the only bodies he sees are those of their enemies. “The others. Fuck, they don't know. We must call them before they ditch their numbers...” Nicky grabs his hand as he turns, stopping him. The look on his face is enough to make his blood run cold. “What? What did I miss?”

“Joe, this wasn't revenge for one of our old jobs: I saw them tie Quýnh up even if she was dead and the man who killed me waited before he shot me. He was watching me, he wanted to see if I healed.”

Joe's stomach clenches painfully, his heart feels like it's trying to beat right out of his chest. “Fuck! So they already knew? How? We have always been so careful!”

Nicky runs a hand through his hair, grimaces and drops it. “I don't know.”

“Shit!” He starts pacing. “Perhaps they escaped. I mean, it's _them._ Andy has forgotten more ways to kill than entire armies ever learn, Quýnh... shit, Quýnh, it will be a nightmare for her! Booker's no slouch either and Nile was a Marine, perhaps they got out already.”

“They won't come back here.” Nicky says, gesturing to the room in shambles.

“Of course they will, especially if they think we're dead.” He grimaces. “Booker will want to bury us.”

Nicky winces, then nods. “True. We can't just wait here for them, though. We're not even sure if they got out, or where they were being taken.”

“We must find out who's behind this. If it was a government...” He shudders.

Nicky bites his lips, crosses his arms over his chest. “Nothing lasts forever, not even countries.”

“How long would it take, though? And how long before they – _we_ 'd pass into legend again? With cameras and DNA samples and who knows what else? Fuck, we won't even have the dreams to help us. You died after me,” Which might mean Nicky's immortality will last longer, but that's not a thought he can deal with right now. “Did you get anything?”

“They spoke English, but it doesn't mean much in our line of work.” He glances at the bodies Andy left behind. “I don't suppose they would have kept something useful on their persons. Like their employer's business card.”

“Now that would...” Joe stops in his tracks, turns towards the window. “Did you hear that?”

It's an engine, the engine of a van coming closer – no sirens, though. He moves to another window, watching it as it parks right by the door and three men in black uniforms come out.

“Clean up crew?” Nicky whispers by his ear.

He nods. “Seems so. Play dead?”

“Play dead.”

They scramble back in place silently, lying down more or less where they fell with only seconds to spare before the door swings open again and the three men creep in, guns at the ready – Glock 17, though, not the heavier weapons they had earlier, and they quickly return them to their holsters.

“...believe that bitch with an axe did all this,” the shorter one says in an American accent, crouching down near his late comrade-in-arms.

“Why not?” another one asks, bending down to grab the first body. “You were there.” He sounds British, though Joe can't say precisely from where.

“Copley should have warned us!”

“He did. Or did you sleep through the video?” The third man, another Brit, says as he gathers the abandoned weapons.

Shorty splutters. “Well, I thought it was a fake! Don't you know what they can do?”

“Don't you start with your fucking conspiracy theories again!” Brit Number One huffs, dragging a body through the door.

“If you though it was fake, why did you stay? Lopez walked out.” The planes above drown out the rest of their conversation.

Joe doesn't move, doesn't even glance towards Nicky, though is mind is furiously at work. Copley, they said, and former CIA agent James Copley tried to get in touch with them a lot up until February. It can't be a coincidence. Fuck, if the CIA is behind this, they're fucked!

The three men come back, the American arguing about...lizard people, apparently, the two Brits egging him on.

The argument lasts another two trips, then they come back for the last two bodies.

“...if the shit we saw tonight ain't enough to open your fucking mind!”

“Does that mean you won't ask Merrick for a raise?” Brit Number Two needles him.

“Sure I will! Fucker can afford it. He'd better pay, or...”

“Or what?” Brit Number One interjects. “You'll talk to his competitors? We signed a shitton of NDAs, did you forget?”

“Yeah, and you don't want to end up on Keane's bad side. I worked with him before, he's a right bastard. Used to be in the Special Forces. ”

The American scoffs. “I ain't afraid of him!”

Now this is interesting. Merrick and Keane could very well be intermediaries or other CIA agents, but Joe doubts it: government agencies are notoriously tight-fisted, even the Americans who generally like throwing money around. Perhaps Mr. Copley did leave the Company and this is a private venture... He really hopes so, it will be so much easier if it is. Perhaps he's asking too much since it would be a stroke of luck of unprecedented magnitude, especially on the heels his and Nicky's return from death, but a man can hope.

Brit One and the American are moving closer.

“What do we do with the traitors?” Brit Two asks from where he's gathering the spent bullets.

“Traitors?” Brit One asks as the American casually nudges him with his foot.

  
“To the human race. Consorting with freaks.”

“Don't you start, too!” Brit One half turns “Keane's orders were simple, we'll...”

Joe never learns what Mr. Keane had in mind for them: the American shines his torch right in his face and shouts, jumping backwards. “His eyes! Shit, he's...”

He reaches for his gun, but Joe is faster: he shoots him twice, twists and shoots Brit One before his Glock is halfway out of the holster. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Nicky rise and take out Brit Two, brutally efficient as usual.

“You okay?” Joe asks as he stands. He already knows the answer, but, immortal or not, he can't stand to see Nicky hurt.

“Not a scratch. You?”

“I'm okay.”

Nicky nods, rolling his shoulders. “The Copley they mentioned, do you think it's...?”

“It would be a rather extraordinary coincidence if it wasn't.” Joe re-holsters his own gun and starts securing their weapons. “Your thoughts?”

Nicky frowns, his hands quickly divesting Brit Two of his gun and extra magazines. “The other name they mentioned, Merrick... there's a pharmaceutical company with that name. British, I think.”

Joe nods, searching Brit One – as Andy always says, waste not, want not. “First we get rid of them, then pay Copley a friendly call.”

“Do you still have his address?” Nicky stands.

Joe nods. “Somewhere in Surrey. It's on my phone, I'll check on the way.” Months ago, before he stopped calling, they discussed paying him a visit behind the others' back. Would they still be here if they had gone through with it?

“Okay. I'll get the luggage, you go shower.” As he walks away, he casts one last glance at the three new bodies over his shoulder. “We should have been more grateful to them, they saved us a lot of work.”

Joe shakes his head, though it's not a bad point.

After a quick shower each and a change of clothes, they add the last three bodies to the van and steal all the weapons, magazines and, most importantly, enough clothes and equipment from the operatives' bags to assemble two clean, undamaged uniforms.

Next, the van is locked and Nicky drives it through secondary roads to the river Oise: he gets out on the bank, leaves the van running and lets it roll down into the water. After making sure it sinks to the bottom, he cuts through the fields to the service station where Joe is waiting with their Ford Fiesta, all the bags – theirs and Booker's and Quýnh's – and the weapons.

Joe is typing away on his phone when he arrives. Before he can tap on the window, he looks up as if guided by a sixth sense and smiles tiredly at him. Nicky presses a quick kiss to his lips as they trade places.

“I got us tickets for the 8.50 ferry. I don't think we can make the 5.45.” Joe says apologetically as he fastens his seatbelt.

Nicky shakes his head and starts the car. “No, that's right, love, we can't. Immortal or not, we can't afford a crash. What else?”

“How do you know I have more news?”

Nicky huffs. “The way you're smiling. I know you too well, so spill: did you break into the CIA's servers again?”

“Nothing as dangerous as that, though I have good news. Merrick Pharmaceuticals has personnel profiles on their website and guess what's their chief of security's name?”

“Keane?”

“Exactly. The pattern fits.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Nicky nervously wet his lips. “I keep thinking about the video they mentioned, but I can't figure out where or when it could have been taken...”

Joe immediately reaches out and lays a hand on his thigh. “Leave it, Nicky. We'll find out or we won't, what matters is getting the others back soon.”

Nicky hesitates, then nods. “You are right. We're their only chance.” He mentally switches gears, concentrating on the next practical problem. “We'll need to switch cars in Dover. Did you call Sarah?”

“Not yet, I'll do it now.” One brief squeeze to his leg, then Joe pulls his hand back and grabs his phone again.

It takes several rings before the call is answered by a very disgruntled voice.

“Sarah, it's Joe. I know what time is it, it's an emergency. No, you can't speak to Andy. No, neither to Quýnh, that's why it's an emergency!” A pause. “Knee-deep, hopefully we'll get out before it reaches our neck or higher. Don't worry, I wasn't planning to tell you anyway. Listen, we'll arrive in Dover with the ferry at 9.20 AM, can you send one of your boys with a car? Yes, one of our usuals.”

“Bigger.” Nicky says. “Nile.”

Joe squeezes his eyes shut for a second. “Sorry, we need a six- or seven-seater.” A definite rise in tone from the other end of the line. “I know you want more notice, sorry. I know. I know. Just do what you can, okay? I am. We are. Thanks, Sarah, we owe you.” A faint smile curves his lips. “I'll tell them. Yes, I'll try, I promise. Thanks again. Bye.”

He closes the call and hits his head against the headrest, his eyes closed. “I forgot about Nile. How did I forget about Nile?”

“Hey, no, it's okay, love,” Nicky's right hand briefly grips his leg before returning to the steering wheel. “She only arrived today. Yesterday, I mean. We're used to being only the five of us.”

Joe nods tiredly, still feeling a little guilty. “If Sarah doesn't come through, we're screwed.”

Nicky shrugs. “Worse comes to worst, we'll take the other car.”

“What other car?”

“Copley's.”

Joe opens his eyes, turns to stare at Nicky and the small smile twitching at the corner of his lips. “...You want to steal Copley's car.”

“Not _steal_. Borrow for the long term. It's the least he owes us.”

Joe laughs, his smile irresistably widening into a grin. “...Have I told you I love you recently?”

Nicky's smile flickers again. “Not today, you haven't.”

“I'd better remedy that.” He leans over and kisses his cheek.

Nicky huffs a laugh. “No kissing when we're driving. Booker's rules.”

“Well, that never applied to Andy and Quýnh, therefore...”

“ _Therefore_ , my love, you'd better rest now.”

Joe briefly debates protesting, but they didn't get much sleep and there's a very long day ahead. “Can you make it?”

Another shrug. “It's a couple of hours to Calais, I can make it. I'll sleep later.” They might lack Keane's formal training, but they have twelve years of experience with Andy, Quýnh and Booker and all their years together before that.

Joe leans against the window, trying to get comfortable. “You're a Prince among men. The stars in my sky, the sun that lights my days...” His poetic declaration is sadly marred by a yawn.

Nicky chuckles again. “Now let me be the moon who watches over you at night and get some sleep.”

“Okay. Wake me up at the port.”

They reach Calais after dawn, though Nicky lets him get an extra hour of sleep.

They are no strangers to waiting – their job is pretty much 95% waiting – but this time it feels different. It feels longer, more urgent. They try to make the best of it by getting a large breakfast, refueling and buying food and water for the rest of the trip. Joe takes over and gently bullies Nicky into taking a nap. He barely wakes up when they have to leave the car, letting Joe guide him into the ferry and to an empty, secluded spot where they sit together and Nicky falls back asleep with his head on Joe's shoulder.

One hour of sailing – Andy is not here to scoff at the term and the inadequacies of the English language and Joe misses her desperately – and the famous white cliffs come into view. He doesn't move as tourists and returning Englishmen and women rush to the railings and the windows for a better view or a picture, content to feel Nicky's warmth against his side and his soft, even breathing against his skin.

They're off the ferry by 9.40 and head for the usual parking lot near the docks, where they find not one of Sarah's boys but her husband Fred himself, waiting for them next to a grey Vauxhall Zafira.

“Your wife is a miracle worker!” Joe says in lieu of a greeting as he and Nicky step out of their Fiesta.

“I know.” Fred nods, his shoulders tense. “How bad is it?”

“For you and yours? It's not. It's a very personal mess.” He hands over the Fiesta keys and the envelope with their payment. “The new car, the storage fee for ours and double the urgency fee.”

Fred slips the envelope under his jacket, relaxing a little. “Sarah sends her best wishes and said to call her when it's over, preferably at a decent time.”

“We will, thanks.” Nicky nods. “Give her our best reguards.”

They exchange a brief goodbye, then Joe and Nicky get in the Zafira and make for the M20.

Joe insists on driving again. In the passenger seat, Nicky doesn't sleep, just stares down at his hands in his lap.

Joe keeps glancing at him whenever he can, the silence unnerving him. It's not unusual for them to share space without saying a word, but he is intimately familiar with every nuance of Nicky's silences: this is not a good one.

Half an hour into the journey, just past Ashford, Nicky speaks up. “We'll never see Sarah and Fred again.”

“What? Why?” Joe can't help but turn, if only for a second. He can't quite read the expression on his face.

“I don't mean right now. It's just...” He clenches his hand – the right one, where he no longer has a band-aid on his pointer finger, the cut he got yesterday healed and gone without a trace. “It was meant to be our role in the team, keeping contacts. Being their shield. We won't be able to do it now.”

That's true, they won't grow any older now. Joe grips the steering wheel, keeps his eyes on the road even if all he wants to do is take Nicky's hand and look into his eyes. “Do you think they'll still want us?” He whispers.

Nicky sits up, turns to stare at him. “What? Of course they will, that's not what I meant, Joe. Why wouldn't they?”

“Sorry. Sorry. I'm being stupid.”

“You are not. Something's bothering you.” A moment of silence. “You can talk to me, Joe. About anything and everything.”

He doesn't mention Joe's well-known abandonment issues, for which he is immensely grateful. His wonderful, amazing Nicky, who knows all about him, from the best to the very worst, yet loves him anyway. “Booker's real children. They wanted this and hated him because he couldn't give it to them and now we got it...”

  
“Booker didn't make us immortal. He knows that's not how it works.” Nicky points out gently, reaching out and laying a hand on Joe's leg once more. “He'll be happy to get us back. Trust me.”

Joe takes a deep breath, then nods. “Sorry. I told I was being stupid.”

Nicky strokes his thigh down to his knee, comforting rather than enticing. “No one is allowed to talk about the love of my life like that, not even you yourself.”

Joe lets go of the steering wheel with one hand and allows himself to grasp Nicky's for a second. “Thank you, Nicky.”

“It's okay.” Out of the corner of his eye, Joe sees him wet his lips. “I'm worried, too.”

“We'll get them back.” Joe suddenly smiles. “To die trying is no longer an option.”

He's rewarded by Nicky's soft laugh.

They drive on, heading North, then East, going through all different scenarios and putting together plans.

Shortly before they reach Guildford, they stop to stretch their legs, take a piss and eat a quick lunch from their supplies.

Copley, luckily, lives about a mile out of town, in a very modern house all squares and glass that looks out of place among the trees – though who knows, perhaps he and Nicky will live long enough that one day they'll look back on it as a quaint piece, the future version of a Victorian cottage.

They hide the car away from the road, then Nicky climbs a tree with his rifle while Joe scouts the back.

Joe returns a little over one hour later, whistling the chorus of Hey Sokoły as he approaches. Nicky is already climbing down: he drops down the last couple of meters, landing in a crouch.

Joe offers him a hand up anyway. “The grounds are clear. No unknown vehicles and no cameras.”

Nicky nods as he takes it, allowing him to pull him up close. “Copley's alone. He looked restless, though he doesn't seem to be expecting company. He has got pictures of Andy, Quýnh and Booker on his wall, old pictures.”

“So this is it, it's him. Has he got anything on us?”

He shakes his head. “Just our cover identities. I bet when he saw we had aged, he didn't look any closer.” He slings his rifle over his shoulder. “Ready?”

Joe takes Nicky's hand again, his thumb stroking across his knuckles. “You could stay here. Cover me.”

Nicky considers it for a moment, then shakes his head again, turns his hand in his graps and intertwines their fingers. “Not this time. We go together.”

“Okay.” He pulls him closer for one last hug, one last kiss, as they always do before the start of a mission. For the first time ever, Booker isn't here to mess with their hair, there's no Quýnh to demand a hug of her own, no Andy standing to the side and tapping her foot, pretending to roll her eyes before pulling them into her arms and telling them to be careful. Joe has yet to learn what missing a limb feels like, but he would guess it's not too far off from what he's feeling now.

There's no time to linger: they get in through one of the side gates and head for the house, moving silently among the hedges.

Joe stands guard as Nicky picks the lock in record time – Quýnh would be so proud of them, it had been the first thing she taught them and it's a fucking travesty she isn't here to see it, telling her about it later won't be enough.

Copley doesn't hear them until they come through the door of his study, too absorbed by his wall of evidence: he starts going for a drawer – presumably for a weapon – then his eyes widen and he stumbles. “You!”

“Don't move!” Joe orders him. “Hands where we can see them.”

Copley seems to have forgotten he has hands, or a body at all: he just stares at them, still as a statue. “You're dead. Keane said you were dead.”

“Where are the others?” Nicky growls. “Where did Merrick take them?”

Copley glances to his left, to the screen covered in pictures, papers and strings, then back at them. “Is that why they recruited you? They knew?”

“Did they look like they knew?” Nicky bites back, staring at Copley over his sights. “Did they look happy? Unconcerned? Did they?”

Copley lowers his head, unable to hold his gaze. It's an answer in itself.

Joe curses in Arabic. Nicky bumps his shoulder against his, glances towards the desk on the other side of the room and back at the former CIA agent. When Joe nods, he puts his gun away and crosses the room, sitting down at the computer.

Joe takes a couple of steps forward, herding Copley towards a chair and roughly pushing him down on it.

Copley keeps looking at them and at his research. “I can't have missed you.” He mutters. “Everything leaves a trace, even before photographs. Unless you are new, but the other woman is new, too...”

Nicky catches Joe's eyes above their captive's head. Another nod, then he returns to looking through the desk and the computer.

“It doesn't work like that,” Joe says.

Copley leans forward in his seat. “How does it work, then?”

“It doesn't. Nobody knows.” Joe nods towards the wall of articles without taking his eyes off of him. “Do you really think Booker wouldn't have saved his children if he could?”

A strange glint appears in his eyes. “He said you are his sons...”

They don't need to be told, but it's still infuriating to hear it from _Copley_ 's mouth first. Also, Joe really doesn't appreciate the insinuation. “We aren't, not biologically. Booker's real children all died young and not a single one of them came back, so you can wipe that look from your face before we do it for you!”

“Now Booker thinks he has lost us, too. He thinks he couldn't save us.” Nicky adds without looking up from his search.

Copley tries to suppress a flinch, but doesn't quite manage. He clenches his hands on his thighs. “It could be a gift to humanity.”

“Which part of humanity?” Joe asks flatly.

“It could mean the end of disease! The end of suffering!”

Joe raises an eyebrow, entirely unimpressed by the glare being levelled at him. “The end of pharmaceutical companies. Like, oh, Merrick's. Yeah, I'm sure he just can't wait to get accelerated healing to the world.” He steps a little to the side so Copley can better see his wall and pretends to glance at it. “You know what really pisses me off? You saw that. You know what they did, how many people they saved and you sold them out to be used as lab mice. To be tortured for all eternity, and all for nothing.”

“You can't know that!” Copley explodes, leaning forward like he wants to get up but isn't far gone enough to forget Joe's Glock 17. “I had to try! I had to! When my wife died...” He immediately shuts his mouth, his teeth clicking together, as though to keep himself from saying more.

“So because you lost your family, that gave you the right to take ours? To kill us?”

“She couldn't talk, at the end! She couldn't breathe and I couldn't do anything! Do you know how that feels? To be helpless?”

Sure. Joe knows nothing of helplessness. It wasn't him who spent a year watching the cellar door, dreading the moment it would open and what would come after, knowing that there was nothing he could do or say to make Bakker change his mind. It wasn't him who prayed for death every time they went to sleep, who asked God to take at least Nicolò if he couldn't take them both. This, though, is _theirs,_ and as much as he would like Copley to know just how badly Booker outsmarted him, he will not give him this kind of ammo against them.

“Like we were tonight?” He says instead. “Like Quýnh felt because she couldn't put herself between me and every bullet? Or Andy did, or Booker?”

“And that wasn't all, was it?” Nicky says suddenly, his voice startling Copley. He turns in the chair, frowning. “She asked your help and you wouldn't give it.”

Copley recoils so violently he almost tips the chair over. “That's not true! I did all I could! I tried to take her to Switzerland, but...”

“You wouldn't.” Nicky stands from behind the desk, slowly walking back to them – the same slow predator walk he has seen Andy do countless times. “You were a CIA agent: if you had wanted to, you would have found a way. Is that why you hate them? Why you wanted them gone?”

“I don't hate them...”

Nicky ignores him, implacable. “Because they helped people and saved lives when you couldn't?”

“What do you know?” Copley shouts, jumping to his feet. “You and your lover will live forever! You'll never have to watch him die!”

“We won't live forever,” Joe says.

Copley sways as though he had been punched, any word he meant to say stick in his throat. All he can managed is a choked out, “What?”

He and Nicky exchange a lighting quick glance. “All things die, Mr. Copley,” Nicky says, his voice firm but not unkind.

Joe nods. “Before Booker,” he begins, “There was another one. Lykon. He was a little over a thousand years old when his wounds suddenly stopped healing and he died.” Something flickers in Copley's eyes. “Ah. So you did find traces of him, didn't you? But you dismissed them, because he disappeared too early so he must have been just a legend.”

Copley won't look at him, or at Nicky. Slowly, he crumples back on the chair, his legs no longer supporting him.

“That's all we know.” Nicky says. “It could be a hundred years from now or a thousand, but there's no way to know for sure. There's no guarantee we'll go together, either. I will watch the love of my life die over and over again and every time I will wonder if it's the last one.” Nicky's eyes turn into shards of ice, harsh and unyelding. “Also, thanks to you I _have_ watched him die once already, this very day, with every expectation this would be it.”

Copley's shoulders slump, all fight leaves him. “What do you want from me? Just kill me already.”

Another glance between them. Nicky speaks again. “You got them in this mess, now you'll help us get them out.”

Joe lowers the gun, if only barely. “We can do it the easy way or the hard way. Your choice.”

Copley looks up past them to all the information he gathered, the trail he patiently unravelled. Much like a man who has been watching an impressionist painting too close, only to finally take a step back and _see._ His back straightens, his eyes are keen, focused again. “What do you need?”

They tell him. It's simple enough: the location of the lab, everything he knows about it and Merrick's security.

Once again, they are incredibly lucky: the lab is in London. Even better, it's Merrick Pharmaceuticals headquarters and Steven Merrick lives right above it.

They have time to spare, again. They take a one-hour nap – not at the same time, sadly, but needs must and fidarsi è bene ma non fidarsi è meglio – then Joe moves their car closer to the house and comes back with the stolen uniforms and equipment, plus his and Nicky's shaving kits and Booker's electric clippers, avoiding Nicky's eyes as he locks himself in the guest bathroom.

When he comes back out, his hair and beard are shorter. Much shorter.

Nicky grits his teeth. “Regoleremo anche questa...” He mutters, holding out his hand for the clippers.

Joe tries to look imploringly at him. “You don't have to...”

“I do. Give me those clippers.”

He gives in, sighing. When he looks up, Copley is quickly turning his head away. “We'll try not to leave a mess, but...”

Copley shrugs. “Don't worry about it.”

Taking their leave is awkward, to say the least: Copley expected to be murdered or, at best, be dragged along, probably in the boot of the car – which was, admittedly, something they had considered, unfortunately with their bags, the weapons and one of the extra seats up, there's no room.

“So you'll just... go?” he says again. “Aren't you going to, I don't know, hit me over the head? Lock me in the bathroom or something?”

“You're getting a second chance,” Joe mutters as he finishes double checking all their weapons and closes the boot. “Don't waste it. The others won't be inclined to mercy.”

Nicky nods. Before getting into the driver's seat, he turns back one last time. “I'm not just trusting you with my life, I'm trusting you with Joe's.”

Copley nods wordlessly.

Nicky climbs in and shuts the door.

They drive to London in silence, switching places halfway so Nicky can get another nap.

Timing is the essence, but they are in place well before Zero Hour, waiting at the side door with Copley's key card, hoping it will still work. If it doesn't, they'll have to try the front door, which, dressed as they are in stolen uniforms, is not an entirely impossible endeavour, but still one they don't care to try.

The longer they can delay being discovered, the better.

Unless they misjudged Copley and are walking right into a trap... He only had to make a phone call and they'll be joining the others in the lab.

They are pretty good judges of character – uncannily good, Booker says, but that doesn't mean they haven't been wrong before.

Joe reaches out, grabs Nicky's hand one last time – palm against palm, their fingers intertwined. Nicky squeezes it right back before they have to let go.

Time is up. Nicky adjusts his grip on the “borrowed” submachine gun. Joe pulls Copley's key-card out of his pocket and swipes it in front of the card reader: the light turns green, the door unlocks and opens on an empty hallway.

They go in just as the shift changes, blending in among Keane's guards – calmly and surely making their way to the fifteenth floor, and their family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sinterklaas:** ~~Saint Nicholas, whose feast is on December 6th. In the Netherlands, that's the day when Christmas decorations go up.~~  
>  So I messed up again - thanks to Hewt for pointing it out! Sinterklaas, the feast for the name day of Saint Nicholas, is celebrated on December 5th in the Netherlands (...it was on Wikipedia, how did I miss it?!) and has its own separate style of decorations. The line in the text has been edited to reflect this.  
> Fun fact: Italians traditionally decorate on December 8th, at the feast of the Immaculate Conception, and pull down the decoration on or after January 6th (Epiphany or Three Kings' Day)
> 
>  **Sei qui, sei qui, sei qui...:** you're here, you're here, you're here (Italian) 
> 
> **Hey Sokoły:** Hey falcons, 19th century Ukrainian-Polish song. Mentioned in part I as the song Nicky was humming the night before and Nile didn't recognize. Also partial inspiration for the title. You can listen to it [here](https://morvith.tumblr.com/post/639602166205743104/hej-sokoly-polish-ukrainian-version)
> 
>  **fidarsi è bene ma non fidarsi è meglio:** trusting is good, but not trusting is better (Italian proverb)
> 
>  **Regoleremo anche questa:** We'll settle this score, too
> 
> [The cars](https://morvith.tumblr.com/post/642225751492575232/the-old-guard-cars)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING:** This chapter is the reason for the blood and gore tag. It's...probably not as graphic as you might fear, but please proceed with caution.

They don't mean to get separated. It's just chance, sheer bad luck: they are working their way through the labs when the wall explodes, throwing him and the boys across the room.

He has a second to panic – Joe! Nicky! – then everything goes black.

When he opens his eyes again, it's a new nightmare: Keane punching Joe in the throat, Joe choking as Nicky throws himself forward and tries to pull Keane down – too slow, _too hurt_ and the bastard twists out.

Booker pushes himself to his feet, his lungs burning from the gas and dust – Nicky's down, Keane's on top of him, he's pushing his gun into Nicky's mouth and _ **he's going to shoot Nicky again...**_

Booker slams into him like a freight train, rips him away from Nicky and throws against the wall. Keane manages to shoot him once, the bullet passes straight through his left lung. It hurts, but not enough to stop him or even slow him down: he rips the gun from Keane's hands, breaking his arm in the process, then flips him on the floor. More bones break, he hears them clearly, but it's not enough, it's not enough.

He lands on his stomach with both knees, pinning him to the floor. “You hurt my boys,” he growls as his hands close around his throat.

Keane tries to kick him off, buck him off, desperately tries to punch him or push his fingers in his eyes – Booker twists his head and bites them off, slams his head against the floor.

He's not sure what he looks like, if he's silent or screaming, but the man beneath him looks fucking terrified and the only think he can think is, good. He should be. Let him die choking, let him die alone and afraid, knowing everything he did was all for nothing and all the money he earned will buy him a nicer coffin and extra flowers at his funeral.

Voices calling his name, hands reaching for him – belove voices, beloved hands, covering his own and gently prying his fingers away from Keane's crushed throat.

“It's okay, papa, it's okay, he's dead,” Nicky whispers on his right.

“You can let go now, papa. We are fine. You got us.” says Joe on his left.

His vision swims – tears, he realizes as he blinks them back. Joe and Nicky stand, gently pulling him up with them, and guide him away from Keane's body. Booker pulls them closer, clings to their shoulders. “Are you okay? Are you really okay?”

“Perfectly.”

“Did you forget?” Nicky asks gently.

Booker shrugs, a bit embarrassed. Perhaps he shouldn't be: twenty-six years worth of worry and cares are not easily forgotten. Some part of him still can't quite believe it, too: he keeps expecting it will be a one-off and their immortality will run out at the next big wound.

Logically, it makes no sense: it has never worked like that before... but there have also never been three new immortals at once before.

He forces himself to let them go, grabbing an assault rifle somebody left behind. “Let's go before Andy and Quýnh get to have all the fun.”

There's still one name on his list.

“Where do you think they are?” Joe asks, helping himself to another submachine gun and more ammo.

Nicky shrugs. “Let's follow the gunfire and the screams.”

It is, admittedly, a very good way to track down Andy and Quýnh. One of them – Nile, he supposes – has blocked both elevators, cutting off their only alternative escape route, unless they fancied trying to jump out of the window..

They climb the stairs up to the penthouse, bursting through the door. Nile whips around, her gun up and ready even if she looks a bit shellshocked. “Oh. There you are.”

Behind her, Andy and Quýnh are mopping up the last pocket of resistance – half a dozen guards or so. From what Booker can see, Keane's death left them confused, scrambling. Practically lambs to the slaughter.

Also, Andy has acquired a fire axe in the meantime.

“Merrick?” Booker asks, stepping over several bodies as Nicky and Joe fall behind to loot them.

“Hiding.” Quýnh sneers, wiping her daggers clean on a guard's trousers. “His type always does.”  
  
Andy nods. “Nile, guard the door. Nicky, Joe, check the bathroom down here, we'll take it upstairs.”

The boys exchange a look, moving on without complaints. It's a plausible hiding place, though not a likely one and it does need checking... but they are essentially being sent out of the room while the three of them take point and they know it.

It will have to change, Booker thinks as he follows Andy and Quýnh up the stairs, now that they are immortal, they'll want to be a full part of the team. They won't accept being protected, being coddled (slightly!) anymore and it will take time to adjust to that.

Not today, though. That's a problem for another day.

Andy kicks the bathroom door open. Quýnh and Booker check the bathtub and find it empty.

Quýnh frowns. “Let's check the bedroom.”

If he's hiding under the bed, Booker will not be responsible for his actions. ( _“We hid under the bed, once.” Yusuf shivers. “He was very angry. We didn't try again.” “Not true,” Nicolò whispers. “You made me go alone.” He looks away from the older boy, his lower lip wobbling. “ 'm sorry. Left you.” Yusuf immediately wrapping an arm around Nicolò's shoulders, pulling him closer. “Not your fault! It was my idea and you promised, didn't you? You promised me.” To his permanent dying day, Booker will regret he didn't beat Bakker to death._ )

Luckily for him, he's not there. Unluckily for him, they still find him: inside his walk-in closet, trying to hide behind rows and rows of expensive clothes. He and Andy grab him by his ankles and drag him out kicking and screaming, throw him through the door and onto the floor.

“Please... we can work something out... I can pay you...”

Andy looks down at him, her eyes cold and her mouth curled in disgust. “I'm thinking Rotterdam '93.”

“Oh Hell no!” Quýnh immediately complains. “Why should Booker get all the fun again?”

Booker wants to protest that it wasn't him who got to rain fire, death and destruction on the human traffickers Bakker worked for, but Andy doesn't leave him time.

“Not what we did,” she says. “What we wish we could had done.”

Booker remembers those late-night conversations very well. They are not, he thinks, cruel: true, they kill people, but they are practical about it, quick. They don't linger. Usually.

Occasionally, there are exceptions.

“I can't pull up a stake on my own, Andromache!” Booker protests in Vietnamese – fuck, the boys will end up learning it, they have time now. “And the boys aren't helping, I forbid it!”

Andy sighs, sounding truly put upon. “Fine. Option B it is, then.”

It shouldn't be possible to wield an axe surgically, unless the hands holding it belong to Andromache the Scythian: the blade falls four times – right elbow, right knee, left knee, left elbow – hard enough to cut and shatter Merrick's joints, but not enough to sever his limbs and grant him a quicker death through shock or blood loss.

“All yours,” she announces as she steps back.

Quýnh glances at him and rises an eyebrow. Booker bows at the waist like he hasn't in years. “Ladies first.”

It earns him a wide, happy grin. “Always such a gentleman, Sébastien.” She twirls one of the daggers in her hands, catches it and then strikes, quick as a viper, between Merrick's legs.

Booker can't quite see what she's doing, but from the way he twists and shrieks, he can guess. If it were any other man, well, almost any other man, he'd wince in sympathy.

Quýnh wipes her dagger on Merrick's jacket and stands, her movements so graceful dancers of all countries and eras would weep with envy, turning to him.

Booker smiles entirely without mirth. “May I borrow your other dagger, sister mine?”

She immediately offers it to him hilt-first. “Wouldn't you prefer something duller?”

He shrugs. “Yes, but I don't have time to look. This will have to do” His fingers close around the hilt.

Merrick manages a whimper when he sees him come, crouching next to him. His whole body shivers.

Booker stabs him through the bladder first – another shriek, good – then drags the dagger upwards, the sharp blade slicing through muscle and guts, not without effort.

When he steps back, Merrick is down to a keening rattle.

Nicky pokes his head up from the stairs. “Are you done? We have to go.”

Quynh and Andy exchange a look, then Andy turns towards him and raises an eyebrow. He shrugs.

“It seems it's your lucky day, Mr. Merrick,” Andy mutters as she turns, the axe swinging one last time and severing his head from his neck.

“We ought to put it on a pike for maximum effect.” Quýnh grumbles as they climb down the stairs to the hall where Joe, Nicky and Nile are waiting.

“How do we get out?” Nile asks as she finishes barring the door.

“Well...” Andy starts eyeing the windows. “It's dark enough outside.”

Booker's heart picks up speed. “With their healing still settling in? And three of them?”

“The building next door is shorter,” Joe says. “And close enough we can clear it.”

Another exchange of looks, then they head for the terrace. He is right, they can do it, but not without a broken bone or two. Still not ideal as far as Booker is concerned, but... he'll have to get used to the new reality, sooner or later.

“I go first,” Andy announces.

“Second,” Booker immediately says. If the boys or Nile fall short, she'll need help pulling them up.

Quýnh nods. “I'm last, then.”

Andy rolls on the lading, acquiring nothing worse than a few scratch, while Booker breaks his arm. He curses and stands at it settles back, already moving back to the edge of the roof.

The boys send Nile ahead of them: she breaks a leg, but immediately heaves herself up and hobbles out of the way, shouting, “I'm fine!”

On the other roof, there's a heated discussion on who's going first, which Quýnh settles by slapping both Joe and Nicky upside the head and imperiously pointing at Nicky. In spite of their newly-found immortality, both boys are too sensible to argue with her: Joe and Quýnh move to the side, and Nicky disappears to the back of the terrace to get a good running start.

Booker's heart is in his throat all the time, watching him jump on the large balustrade and push off. He seems to fall for an endless time, though it can't be more than handful of seconds before lands with a loud “Merda!” and the sound of a snapping bone. Booker turns to check on him, but he's already rolling on his feet, cradling his left wrist to his chest.

Nile's with him, though, and he can't really get distracted because Joe is getting ready: his jump is a little shorter – for a heart-stopping moment, Booker fears he won't make it, but he does, by the skin of his teeth. Somehow he also manages to land without breaking anything, Nicky standing by to give him a hand up. His wrist has already healed.

Booker feels a whoosh of air, then Quýnh joins them on the roof. Their family is whole and _safe._

After that, it's a walk in the park – well, down the stairs, out of the door and to the car. Andy retrieves the keys from the rear wheel well and unlocks it. “You kids take the middle seats.”

“Hey!” Nile protests, but follows Joe into the car.

There's a brief thug-of-war between him and Quýnh for the passenger's seat, which he wins by playing dirty and casting her the most pleading glance he can manage. She lets go of the door with a huff and a glare. “Fine! But don't get used to it!” she grumbles as she climbs in the extra seat.

As they drive away, the first police cars pass them going the other way.

Nicky and Joe don't last five minutes: between the healing, the monstruously long and stressful day and the andrenaline crash, they fall asleep side by side – Nicky pressed against the door, Joe leaning against him and holding his hand.

Booker keeps turning back to look at them. He remembers doing the same almost twenty-six years ago, as he drove to Köln in Andy's Alfetta GTV6, Joe and Nicky, still Yusuf and Nicolò then, lying on the backseat fast asleep, wrapped up in the biggest, softest blankets Quýnh had found like a pair of roulades. Back then, he had been a mass of nerves: worried about the job he had just ruined, worried about the two little boys he was transporting without carseats, documents or even shoes, worried about their laboured breathing... He hadn't known then how much his life would change. How lucky they had been.

Every time he turns and finds them still there, still breathing slowly and deeply, his fear ebbs a bit more. It will not vanish for some time yet, he knows, but one day soon it will be gone.

It's not the miracle he asked for more than a hundred years ago, but maybe all miracles are like this, sudden and unexpected. His old sorrow can't be erased – he will always love the children of his blood, always mourn them and miss them – but today, today is a good day.

Today the children of his heart are here, it's the first day of a long, long life: centuries, millenia perhaps and he'll be there, he'll get to watch them grow older, but never old. He'll never have to bury them. Some day he'll have to leave them, but that's for the future, a distant future and though his heart weeps at the thought of causing them pain, that's how it should be.

In any case, he won't leave them alone: his Joe and his Nicky will always have each other. It's the greatest comfort he could ask for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Merda:** shit (Italian)
> 
> **Köln:** Cologne, Germany. 
> 
> **Andy's Alfetta GTV6** : you can admire it in all its beauty [here](https://morvith.tumblr.com/post/642225751492575232/the-old-guard-cars) along with the other cars mentioned in this story
> 
> **Roulade:** a dish of filled rolled meat (or pastry), can be savory or sweet.


	3. Chapter 3

They stay in England long enough to tie up the last loose ends – Andy calls a woman named Sarah, who apparently got them the car, the six of them discuss Copley's fate once it turns out that yes, Joe and Nicky found out about him and no, they didn't kill him before storming Merrick's headquarters and actually want to give him a job.

Their job, more precisely.

That is one Hell of an argument: Nile honestly expected it would take them weeks, months to settle it, instead they spend about a week crashing at Copley's house and conducting the strangest job interview in the world.

She's not entirely sold on the Big Redemption Plan, but doesn't feel a burning desire to extract his guts through his nose like Booker does. At least Andy and Quýnh can fake civility when they are in his presence. In private, they have made clear that, as much as they personally dislike Copley, the practical benefits are too big to ignore. As for Nicky and Joe... Nile doesn't know what sort of game they are playing. Good cop, bad cop, probably, if the looks they exchange from time to time are anything to go by.

She doesn't really take part in the discussions – yes, plural – once she has announced she's in favour of Nicky's scheme anyway: she'd rather spend her time in Copley's study, looking at the wall of evidence he put together. Nicky and Joe join her sometimes, mostly to look at the pictures, but on the whole the other immortals aren't interested.

Nile honestly doesn't get it: it's just... it's one of the most amazing things she has ever seen. Yes, she saw her own bones fix themselves, gunshot wounds heal, she literally returned from the dead, but this is on an entire different level. They have done so much... Helped so many people, saved so many lives. In thousands, millions of ways, they've saved the world.

She understands now why Nicky and Joe wanted to be part of this.

In the end, they reach an agreement about and with Copley, though Booker insists on speaking to him in private before they leave. Nobody knows what he tells him, but Copley comes out of the conversation looking ten years older and with a definite aversion to a certain song Booker occasionally hums in his presence. Joe and Nicky, on being asked, tell her it's called Ça ira and it's from the French revolution. In which Booker took part.

Some days wrapping her head around the whole situation is easier than others.

They leave England in pairs – she and Quýnh, Andy with Booker –  and make their way to Malta, to Joe and Nicky's house – a real house, under their real names, not one of the team's hideouts. They tell her it used to be one, before Booker even came along, but they had let it fall into disrepair. Joe and Nicky fell in love with the island during one of their trips around the world, so they ended up dusting off the deed to the house and renovating it the summer Joe turned 18.

Nile can see why they would. It is, without a doubt, one of the pretties places she has ever seen – but maybe it's the house, its air of warmth and safety somehow extending to the whole island.

Booker insists that she takes his room and relocates downstairs, to the living room. Andy and Quýnh tease him, call him “an old fashioned gentleman”, all the while pretending not to notice the assault rifle he keeps under the sofa bed, or that he placed himself as first line of defense.

At night he walks the perimeter, sometimes alone, sometimes with Andy or Quýnh. She sees them from the bedroom window, looking like a pair of insomniac tourists – harmless and innocent. They could fool anyone, even her.

It's nice. Weird, too, the closest thing she has had to a vacation since before dad's last tour. 

They all need time to recover, time for the nightmares to pass and to get to know each other, adapt to the new reality.

They're not really training – whenever Andy starts making noises about it, Quýnh throws her a certain look and the subject is promptly dropped – but they are all active people in an extremely active line of work: a day or two lazying around is fine, more and they start getting antsy.

So they swim in the sea and go for morning runs and wrestle and spar. Nicky makes her favorite food, Joe shows her around the island and talks art with her, Booker is always willing to listen and suggest books, fully living up to his name, Andy and Quýnh answer any and all questions she has and discuss what she might like to learn or do first, which countries will be best avoided for the next decades...

It's nice of them. Very nice. Nile still feels a bit... adrift.

They hammered out several plans with Copley about what to do about her former employers, about changing her status from AWOL to KIA, but they can't be implemented in a day, or even a few weeks, then there's still the issue of her family. She still hasn't decided what to do with them: if she will contact them again or let them go.

Upon her request, Booker spoke about his family – his first family, but, beyond that, nobody has brought it up. It's her decision, yet she knows which one they'd all prefer.

She can't blame them, not after Merrick, and he was just a private citizen. Perhaps it will be kinder on her family, too: it will be like her father all over again, no, worse... She tries not to think of her mother looking like Booker did in the church when he saw that Joe wasn't moving, screaming like Booker did when Nicky was shot. She tries not to wonder if she would look like he did at the lab when they came back, if she'd tackle-hug her like Quýnh or kiss her forehead like Andy.

She lies in the garden behind the house, looking up at the stars and the waning moon. Once she heard a song – more than one, probably – about how the moon and stars are always the same no matter where in the world you are, except right now it's afternoon in Chicago. Perhaps the sun shines, or perhaps it's cloudy. Perhaps it's raining. Deon's spring term is over, he'll be at work. So will be mama.

Nile doesn't know how she'll ever reach a decision.

She hears the back door open and close, two sets of footsteps coming closer before stopping a few feet away.

“Hey, Nile. Can we join you?” Joe asks gently.

Nile turns towards him and Nicky, raises an eyebrow. “It's your garden.”

Nicky shrugs. “You were here first. If you'd rather be alone...”

“No! I mean, no.” She is a bit surprised by her own answer, but it is true. “I could use some company.”

They both smile and move closer, lying down on the grass – Nicky to her right, Joe to her left.

“Thinking about your family?” Joe asks.

Nile sighs. “Yes. And...” she makes a vague gesture. “You know, life, the universe and everything.” She could stop there, but finds herself continuing instead. “I just feel a little superfluous. I mean, I'm glad you are here! When the others thought you were dead, they were... And you got us out of Merrick's, don't think I'm not grateful. I just... I wonder why me, why now, if you were always meant to be together.”

“Copley still thinks it might be genetic,” Nicky says. “But I don't think so.”

On the one hand, it would make sense, what with the population growth in the last centuries, and the fact that she, Joe and Nicky were all born within a decade of each other seems to confirm it. On the other, the number of immortals is absolutely ridiculous: even the rarest diseases must manage more than 7 in several thousand years.

“So you still think it's destiny?”

He shrugs. “What else could it be?”

He does have a point there. Especially with Joe and Nicky's... adoption, or rather the time before that. After hearing more about it, she can't help but wonder what would have happened to them if Booker hadn't stumbled on them. If they had died of pneumonia in that cellar, would they have stayed dead, since it wasn't a violent death? If somehow they had survived, eventually they would have outgrown their captor's tastes: he might have passed them on to somebody else, but it's more likely he would have killed them. Would they have returned then? Would they have been stuck as pre-teens forever? Is that why Booker found them instead, to prevent that? Or was it a matter of time and place?

What if they had never been kidnapped at all? If Joe's parents hadn't died, if Nicky's mother had washed her hands of him and left him to Italian social services, would they still have met Booker and the others? She can't quite picture either of them joining the army – well, Nicky, maybe. Would they have still become immortal?

Too many questions with too many variables and some of them lead down a definitely unpleasant road. Maybe someday all this will be far enough in the past she'll feel able to bring it up, but for the moment, she'd rather let it be. She doubts there will ever be an answer anyway.

“Perhaps you are right,” she concedes. “But it makes more sense for you two than, well, me.”

Joe turns his heard towards her. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why? You guys grew up with this!”

“That's exactly the problem,” he replies. “We are too used to the way things are.”

Nicky nods. “You challenge the others in a way we can't. I mean, you stabbed Andy!”

“The pitfalls of working with family.” Joe laments. “They always make you feel like a little kid.”

Nile grins. “Isn't that right, _boys_?”

There's a moment of stunned silence, then Nicky laughs and Joe turns on his side, half-rising on his elbow. “Oh, no. _You_ don't get to call us that!”

“Why not? I'm older than you, immortally speaking.”

“By a few days, and you're still younger than us, Miss 90ies!”

She snorts. “Is that the best you can do, oh master of poetry?”

“Listen here, you _infant_...”

If asked later, Nile won't remember half of the things they called each other: only that she was having fun, teasing and being teased in return.

At “Brat,” Joe plays dirty and pokes her in the side, startling a laugh out of her.

She pokes him right back – it's silly, childish, but oh, it's so good not to be the responsible one, the mature one for once.

Nicky looks on, smiling and firmly refusing to help either of them. After a while, he lays back down and starts humming a song.

Nile stops bickering with Joe and turns toward him. “I've heard you humming that song before. What is it?”

“It's called Hej Sokoły, it's a Polish song. It's not a happy one,” he adds almost apologetically.

“Like pretty much every folk song ever. And don't get me started on country.” She rolls her eyes.

“Nicky likes it, especially the chorus.” Joe offers.

“Really? Let's hear it!”

Nicky clears his throat, breathes in and starts singing, his deep voice filling the air.

“Hej, tam gdzieś z nad czarnej wody

Wsiada na koń kozak młody.

Czule żegna się z dziewczyną,

Jeszcze czulej z Ukrainą.

Joe starts singing, too, his voice joining Nicky's. They sound good together, practiced.

“Hej, hej, hej sokoły

Omijajcie góry, lasy, doły.

Dzwoń, dzwoń, dzwoń dzwoneczku,

Mój stepowy skowroneczku...”

Nile closes her eyes and listens. She can't understand a single word, but it doesn't really matter. She's no closer to a decision than she was before, but she one thing she knows: whatever the future may bring, she will not face it alone.

“Hej, hej, hej sokoły

Omijajcie góry, lasy, doły.

Dzwoń, dzwoń, dzwoń dzwoneczku,

Mój stepowy

Dzwoń, dzwoń, dzwoń...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ça ira:** emblematic song of the French Revolution (Booker would have been 19 or 20 when it appeared in 1790). Booker always refers back to the Jacobin version, not today's “sanitazed” version (how much can a song be sanitized when the first 4 lines of the chorus include “all the aristocrats to the streetlights, we shall hang the aristocrats” is anyone's guess). You might remember the song from Booker's memories in chapter 3 of _With this wind blowing, and this tide_.
> 
> **AWOL:** Away Without Official Leave, absent without permission. 
> 
> **KIA:** Killed In Action 
> 
> **Hey Sokoły:** Polish-Ukrainian folk song, it has appeared before in the series. I stole half the title of this part from the lyrics. You can listen to it (both Polish and Ukrainian versions) [here](https://morvith.tumblr.com/post/639602166205743104/hej-sokoly-polish-ukrainian-version)
> 
> Lyrics:   
> Hey there, over the Black water  
> A young Cossack mounts his horse  
> Tenderly he bids his girl adieu  
> and more tenderly still to Ukraine 
> 
> Hey, hey, hey falcons  
> Fly over mountains, forests and valley  
> Ring, ring, ring little bell  
> My little steppe skylark  
> Hey, hey, hey falcons  
> Fly over mountains, forests and valley  
> Ring, ring, ring little bell  
> My steppe  
> Ring, ring, ring...
> 
> I got the translation off the internet, so let me know if I made a mess of it. 
> 
> Confession time: the song was supposed to appear also when Joe and Nicky get into the lab to save their family, only when the time came to write that scene... it didn't work out that way. So yeah, I named the series after a scene that didn't happen. At least I got a title.   
> I still think the chorus fits The Old Guard very well.

**Author's Note:**

> I owe so many thanks: 
> 
> to [StarWatcher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarWatcher/pseuds/StarWatcher) for transcribing the whole movie and kindly sharing it with us! It was extremely useful!
> 
> to [SlytherinSal](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2617304/slytherinsal) for her suggestions for Merricks' death (if you didn't like it, blame me, not her)
> 
> to the sainted man who married me for lending his expertise about cars and listening to me ramble. He's also the reason why I didn't stick Booker in the extra seat at the back of the Vauxhall Zafira - turns out there's a limit to how evil I can be.
> 
> to [GioTanner](https://giotanner.tumblr.com/) for weighing in on the matter of Copley's car (to steal it or not to steal it? We went with "not") and breaking the stalemate between me and the above-mentioned sainted man
> 
> and to everybody who commented or left kudos, your support was always appreciated! Thank you for giving my story a chance and following me on this journey!


End file.
